The Signora said it was a tragedia and we presumed someone had drowned. The ambulance was parked on the road and by the sea wall two paramedics were visible. People on their way out to dinner had formed into small groups, the words La Poverina (the poor woman) slipped out from their respectful mutterings.
A hospital car sirened to a halt; two nurses and a doctor, climbed out. They were followed by a woman in plainclothes.
The Signora turned her big sad eyes on my husband, and bit down on her lip. "Assistente sociale," she said, meaning social worker.
He asked if the victim was Italian and the Signora gave him a disdainful look.
I asked if she was dead. The Signora shook her head as if there were worse things than death. "Ubriaca," she whispered.
I looked at my husband – “Doesn’t that mean . . .?”
“Drunk,” he confirmed.
We tried not to laugh. An ambulance, a car, two nurses, a doctor, a social worker, and all because a woman was drunk. I could only imagine the chaos in Dublin, if every time there was a drunk on the street, we were to send out the medical cavalry.
But then Italians don’t really understand the drinking culture – just try explaining what the term “social drinker” means, as I did to an Italian friend who had been checking out the Irish dating scene (she decided in the end that Irish men prefer drink to women).
Here in Italy, being drunk is something to be pitied. Unless of course, the drunk in question happens to be a member of your own family, in which case it’s a disgrace. Here, the evening is about food, not drink. What am I saying – evening! Here, every moment of every day appears to be about food and every man, woman and child has their culinary opinion. The best way to roll pasta, to preserve peaches, to fillet and deep fry the teeniest anchovies. In Italy, life will never be long enough to stuff all the mushrooms in town.
Our first time to be invited to dinner in an Italian home, there were 16 guests, 10 of whom were men. Ten men and a baby. The women remained in the kitchen until dinner was served. We sat on the sofa and smiled while we waited to be offered a drink. Twenty minutes later, we were still grinning and no sign of that drink.
In Ireland, “What are you havin’?” is usually the first thing out of the host’s mouth. Our Italian host could only talk about the evening’s menu: pork stuffed with hazlenuts he’d picked himself; truffles snuffled out of the ground by his uncle’s pet boar named Crocroc.
Drinkable
Time moved on. The baby was passed round and duly goo-gooed at. By now, my husband’s tongue was hanging down to his chest for the want of a drink. Someone passed me the baby and suggested my husband might like to hold it. Not unless it’s a drinkable baby, I thought and passed the baby back.
Eventually, we were invited to the table. Within moments, it all made perfect sense. The food was everything, the wine, a mere second fiddle.
I gave up alcohol completely for a year once, while writing a novel called Tatty – the story of a marriage break-up as told through the eyes of a child. I wanted to recall my own childhood experience of being the only sober one in the company. Whatever about childhood – and that's a much larger and more serious subject – I can tell you this: an Irish pub is no place for a teetotaller.
In case anyone would like to give it a try, here are a few pointers:
Some people will regard you with suspicion: a spy taking notes for the drink police. Drive these people home and all suspicion will be dropped.
Buy your round – you are buying into the company, so it’s only fair. At the same time, expect to find yourself excluded from other people’s rounds, this is because water, even if it sparkles, is not really a drink.
There will be disappointments – people who wanted to be your best friend last week, won’t recognise you next time you meet. And plans forged at bar counters – that trip to New York, the charity hike – will turn out to have only been pub talk.
Blessings
But there will be blessings. You will slowly come to realise that socially, you don’t really need drink, in fact it’s probably been holding you back. You will have time, buckets of time, to read and rest and find other interests. Your mind will be easier. You will start to get your house, metaphorically and otherwise, in order. Most importantly of all, when the year is up, you will never drink the same way again.
I don’t want to knock it – some of my most enjoyable occasions have been centred on drink – but I’ve seen too many victims over the years. What starts out as an adventure becomes a habit, and a well-fed habit can only go one way. Sometimes a break from it does no harm, if only to clear the vision.
Christine Dwyer Hickey's novel The Lives of Women was published in April by Atlantic UK. Kathy Sheridan is on leave